The Last Exit

For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid reader. Once, on a trip to the pediatrician’s office for some childhood ailment, I happened upon a collection of short stories, primarily moral and religious tales of the type frequently encountered in the 60s and 70s. Each was accompanied by detailed illustrations. One story, called “Jesus Understood,” was of particular interest to me. It involved a young boy hospitalized after being struck by a car. Bedridden and in terrible pain, he lay in his bed as another young patient explained to him that if his pain was too great, all he had to do was raise his hand as he went to sleep, and Jesus, who came to the ward each night, would see him and take him to heaven. That night, the boy carefully propped up his arm with a pillow and went to sleep. When morning came, he was dead, taken to heaven by Jesus.

In my 8-year-old mind, a plan began to form. Though not in physical pain, I deeply identified with the wounded boy in the story. I was an isolated, lonely child, made fearful of the world by turbulent and unpredictable circumstances at home. I had few friends and lived a life mostly inside my own mind, waiting and carefully planning each day for the next obstacle I would have to overcome. Captivated by the idea that I could simply leave my present existence and reside in heaven with Jesus, I decided to emulate the little boy in the story. That night after I went to bed, I carefully propped up my right hand with a pillow, just like I had seen in the picture. Falling asleep, I awaited with the faith of only the very naive an end to the pain of my day-to-day existence. 

Awakening the following morning, I was crushed. Thinking that I might have done something wrong, I persisted for several nights, each morning bringing fresh disappointment. I finally gave up; my faith was now challenged for the first, but not the last time. Realizing that nobody was coming to save me, I somehow found the will to move forward, slowly acclimating to the struggles that life brought me. As I grew older, I never forgot this period of my life or the depth of despair I felt. As a young adult and as a man, I would often find myself adrift in similar waters, and each time I would reflect on that 8-year-old boy, his failed plan, and the eventual parting of the clouds, revealing a brighter day.

Police officers often see more suicides than almost any other manner of death. Suicide is an epidemic in the United States, with just under 46,000 occurring in 2020. It is widespread among men, who commit suicide at 3.5 times the rate that women do. I would guess that I attended perhaps fifty suicides throughout my career, though the number may indeed be higher. I can recall one bleak week in the mid-1990s where I investigated four in as many days, one for each day I worked. All were attended by grieving family members, lost in the unique and excruciating pain that suicide brings to survivors. 

I would come to know many people over the years who made frequent suicide attempts, though most of these were women who tend to be more tentative in their approach and, in my experience, often call for help before or during the act. This reaching out frequently leads to rescue and, in some cases, successful treatment for the underlying mental illness that causes so many suicides. Men, who are more likely to use firearms and much more reluctant to ask for help, were far less likely to be saved. 

I always profoundly sympathized with victims of suicide that I encountered, both those who committed the act and loved ones left behind. More than a handful did it out of desperation following a terminal illness diagnosis. They were often unable to cope with chronic pain or simply feared the slow death awaiting them. But the overwhelming majority were escaping a different type of pain, one that I knew all too well. Sometimes the demons that haunt us can cause anguish as great as any physical disease, a pain that no drug can obliterate. 

The most awful part of these investigations was speaking to the survivors, who are often left with questions that can never be answered. Those contemplating suicide will frequently give hints, but rarely in my experience, will they express their intention once the decision has been made. Often survivors cannot see that they could not have prevented the act, and the guilt they are left with can be crushing. Suicide often runs in families, as children see it as a viable solution when parents make this terrible choice. I have also seen it become “contagious” in adolescent groups, with clusters happening in middle and high school. 

They say that the suicide rate among police officers is roughly twice that of the general population, and I do not doubt this number. I have personally known several policemen who chose this path, including one of my first training officers. The close, constant proximity of firearms combined with continuous exposure to the finality of death is a potent combination. Death can seem almost peaceful if you can somehow drown out the anguished cries of loved ones left behind. But it is a false promise. While I believe medically assisted suicide should be a legal option in some cases, I remain unconvinced that it is the solution most seek. 

I have no interest here in judging anyone for their choices or quantifying their pain, for, in the end, the only thing we truly own is our life. Who am I to disapprove of another’s decision over the only thing they truly and completely possess? I can only offer my own perspective as an observer of suicide and the devastation it leaves in its wake. To those who are contemplating it, you have only my compassion. I would ask only this: you do what I did as an 8-year-old boy and search for a way to get out of bed one more time. One day the clouds might begin to part for you too.